Catalyst
by ink and ashes
Summary: [spoilers] A collection of ficlets, drabbles, vignettes, and oneshots explaining just how everything really is Captain Jack Sparrow’s fault. [inspired by the deleted island scenes from CotBP, and AWE][Jack x Elizabeth, prominently, with other pairings]
1. ch001 because of jack

**CHAPTER SUMMARY: ** It was all his fault. Him and that bloody compass of his.

**CATALYST**  
because of Jack//ch.001  
_We're really bad eggs._

All of it was his fault. Everything, from the moment I met Will—and before!—was Jack's fault.

If Jack had never set his greedy, pirate-eyes on the Aztec gold of Cortez on Isla de Muerta, Barbossa would have never led a mutiny against him, and would never have stolen the Black Pearl from him—although that's still in question. But seeing as I'm very angry at that bloody pirate, I still say it's all Jack's fault.

Because of Jack, and the mutiny against Jack, William's father was strapped to a canon to die at the bottom of the ocean—and later to join Davy Jones' crew—thus, sending William afloat on some driftwood . . . and eventually find his way to me on James Norrington's ship. With the blasted Aztec gold around his neck. Bloody hell. If I had known what trouble that blasted medallion would cause, I'd have thrown it overboard to let those filthy pirates swim to the bottom of the sea for their accursed gold. As it were, I took it from Will. I didn't want him to be a pirate . . . not anymore.

But because of Jack, that plan went straight to Hell.

Because of Jack, I . . . well, fine. Because of Jack, I _didn't_ drown the day James Norrington proposed to me. Thanks to Jack, I'm still alive in spite of the fact that a corset tried to strangle me. But! One merit does not undo all of the blame I have to lay at his feet. Blasted pirate.

Because of Jack, Will and I finally admitted how we felt for each other. Bah! That's another merit . . . fine. But Jack _also _tried to seduce me on that blasted island. I found out that the illustrious stories about _sea turtles_ were utter rubbish (_but I did find out that the _other_ stories were true . . . that was a bit discerning_) _and_ that rum can be handy when marooned. Much to the chagrin of one Mr. Sparrow—hah, I one-uped the notorious pirate! That still feels good.

I also found out Jack couldn't sing. Neither can I, but still. . .

Later, Jack was the reason Norrington lost his position, and why Will and I were arrested on _the day of our wedding!_ He was the reason I spent nearly a week behind bars, why Will had to leave me, why my father was arrested, why Beckett was so hell-bent on destroying the pirate race. _Because of Jack_, I had to stow away as a boy, Will was practically sold to Davy Jones (and met his father), and Norrington became so bitter (although that was partly my fault as well). Jack and his stupid _bloody compass_ made me doubt my affections and my heart. Bloody compass. _Bloody bloody bloody bloody blasted godforsaken kraken-loving compass! _

And no matter what anyone says, it was Jack's fault that bloody Kraken almost killed us all. Jack's fault I had to chain him to that bloody mast. Jacks' fault I k. . . his fault I kis. . . ugh! It was Jack's bloody fault I ki—oh, codswallop! Jack and that _bloody bloody bloody bloody bloody compass! _I've _never_ doubted my own feelings before that bloody compass. Curiosity my arse, Jack's nothing but a manipulative little eunuch himself! Oh, if I could only rip his heart out myself. . .

And it was Jack's fault we had to drag his drunk arse back from the Locker. Jack's fault Beckett nearly killed us. His fault my father died. Jack's fault William mistook that ki . . . ki . . . oh bloody—_kiss!—_for my loving the sea-loving pirate. Jack's fault William had to save his father—for, if Jack had never set his eyes on the gold of Isla de Muerta, Barbossa would have never mutinied against Jack and William's father would still be alive instead of on Jones' crew to begin with! It's all _Jack's _fault that William is now the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_; the arse took too long in stabbing the heart and Jones stabbed William before Jack could stab the bloody heart. Bloody pirate couldn't even _stab_ things—er. . . organs—properly. One big bloody stabbing fest. Bloody pirate does _everything_ wrong.

So it was Jack's fault William 'died', but also his fault William is still . . . alive. Because instead of Jack taking immortality for himself he . . . he gave it to . . . William. Jack gave up his dream to save William.

Oh. Oh . . . bugger me . . . oh.

Well. I . . . suppose I owe Jack an apology, then. I called him a few nasty things. I didn't mean to. I was angry. But . . . he shouldn't have said what he did! Just because I'm the Pirate King does not mean I can't also be a wife—and a mother—on a peaceful little island. I don't need his blasted Fountain of Youth, even if he was right in saying I'm getting restless. I can wait ten years for William. And then ten years after that, and then decades more until . . . _until I'm old and gray and William will scarcely recognize me or his son. _

That's right, isn't it? William has everlasting youth, whilst I age and our son gets older and just as restless as I. Speaking of which, just where is little William? I hope he's not off with Jack again. _That boy's getting much too clingy to that pirate. _I knew I shouldn't have let Jack regal him with tales of his old adventures. Never mind that I hadn't heard half of them myself and was curious, but I didn't want my son to follow that route. No no _no._ "William!" I call, walking down the hill from our cottage. Ever since Jack's started visiting, he and Will have been frequenting the beach more often that I'd want them to. Even though I would always be dubious of Jack, I knew he wouldn't let my son get hurt. _Still. . ._

"Wil—!"

"I'm over here, mum! Uncle Jack's teaching me how to fish!"

_Uncle?_ Just where the bloody Hell did William get _that_ notion? I glare at Jack; he's smiling down at William. William's so impressionable, and just as curious about pirates as I was at his age. Oh, now I understand why my poor father tried to marry me off—secure a _proper_ future for me. I wonder if I was this much of a headache . . . and I realize that I was worse. "William, it's getting late. Come inside."

William pouted. "But, mum!"

"No—inside! I have to speak with your . . . _uncle_ Jack alone."

He huffed and grumbled in a big show but eventually did as I said. He said goodbye to Jack and—this almost had me doubting my eyes—_hugged_ the pirate. Jack kissed his forehead and smiled. "Night, little un'." William trotted off happily into the house and I was left alone with my son's . . . _uncle. Uncle_. Jack Sparrow. An uncle. Hah! Not bloody likely.

"I didn't know you were so well acquainted with William."

"Well, I figure I'm here so often the boy might as well get to know me." He stood and sauntered through the waves from the large rock he and my son had been perched on. His boots, I noticed, had been thrown on the shore—he's lucky the tide didn't sweep it away—and it dawned on me that William hadn't been wearing any shoes either. In fact, William seems to prefer bare feet to shoes at all. . . Dear Lord, what was Jack doing to my baby? "And besides—whom better than to teach 'im the way of the sea than the _notorious_ Cap'n Jack Sparrow." He smiled then, striking a dashing pose. I rolled my eyes.

"Notorious? Who said you were notorious?" Conceited lout.

That smile turned devious. "You did, love. Willy told me 'bout the stories you tell 'im in bed." He preened, his chest puffing out like a proud rooster. _Conceited cock_, I thought, and almost laughed at the inside joke. "The dashing Captain Jack Sparrow. I like it." He said it a few more times, in different tones, as if testing the title on his tongue. "Good lad, y' got there," he said after a moment. He looked ready to say more, but didn't.

I didn't like the silence. I took the initiative. "Look . . . I'm sorry for what I said earlier, Jack. But you must understand, _I'm happy here_."

Where he had been staring out at the sea just a second before, his head snapped to me, his wild hair swinging wildly. He smiled, and it was the saddest thing I'd ever seen. "You keep telling yourself that, darling."

_I'm happy! _"I will." But even _I_ didn't believe it. Blasted yellow-bellied codpiece, _why_ am I tearing up? I shouldn't be crying. I'm the bloody Pirate King. Wait, where are you going? I never said you had to _leave_, you bloody arse. I'm angry at you, but you don't need to _leave_. . . _then_ whom will I blame for this debacle? This is all your fault, Jack Sparrow.

You and that _bloody bloody bloody _compass of yours.

**end//ch.001**

**NOTES//author.babble// **I'm still rusty at best. It's _been a while_. I haven't written in years… anyway, if you notice any mistakes in spelling, I'm terribly sorry. I can't get a beta because I've seen the third movie three times, whereas everyone else I know hasn't seen it _once_, so if I gave them this to read, it would be really fucked up of me as a friend.

And you're going to notice Elizabeth's excessive use of the word "bloody". Well, I happen to like that word, and seeing as she's the Pirate King, I found it fitting. Hell, if _I_ were Pirate King, I'd haul away Jack like my Queen and scream "bloody" all night long – but for different reasons, of course. Lol, I'm laughing at my own joke. Hahaha… okay, whatever. This chapter's broken up and choppy because it's supposed to be the thoughts of an angry woman—and we don't necessarily think very… what's the word? Logically? When we're angry. Although Lizzie's pretty damn logical here… kind of.

Meh. I'm just fishing for a loophole so Jack and Elizabeth can get it on while staying in character. Hey, I'll sail whatever ship I damn well please.

Hahaha, "bloody"…

I've been listening to the soundtrack to the third movie since I saw it (which was opening night). DOWNLOAD IT!! It's more addicting than the word "bloody". Hahaha…


	2. ch002 true colors pt01

**CHAPTER SUMMARY: ** (island setting) Sometimes, meeting the man behind the legend diminishes the luster. This, Elizabeth realized, was not one of those times. (deleted scenes from first movie incorporated. _BUY THE DVD_.)

**CATALYST**  
true colors//ch.002//pt.01  
_Yo-ho, haul together—hoist the colors high!_

She'd walked the island twice. She'd circled, zig-zagged, and almost danced in frustration around the bloody thing for lack of anything else to do. Her footsteps were everywhere; millions of footprints molded into the soft white sands of her Eden prison. When the sun became too much to bear for her pale countenance, she decided to jump into the sea to cool off—but an overzealous little fish had tried to wiggle its way up her nightdress so she hadn't tried that again.

He, on the other hand, hadn't moved an inch. He sat there looking out at the beautiful blue ocean with a bottle of that infernal rum in his calloused hands. Then he started checking his pistol. When she'd stopped fidgeting and pacing, he looked up at her; she was glaring down at him. "If you're going to shoot me, please do so without delay."

He gave her a queer look and leaned forward, his weapon forgotten. "Is there a problem between us, Miss Swann?

It was then he realized that she didn't look so pretty with a sneer on her face. "You were going to tell Barbossa about Will in exchange for a ship." She shook with anger. She didn't explain herself further, and she didn't have to. _Bloody pirate._

"Well, we _could _use a ship," he said simply, but his calm demeanor turned into a glare and Elizabeth became unsure of herself. "The fact is, I was _not_ going to tell Barbossa about bloody Will in exchange for a ship because as long as he didn't know about bloody Will, _I had something to bargain with_. Which now, _no one has—thanks to bloody stupid Will._" He stood, tucking the pistol into his waistband. He wasn't as angry as he could have been, she was sure, but it was discerning that he _was_ angry. In the short time that she'd known him, she'd never seen him truly angry; it was why, admittedly, she sometimes forgot he was a pirate—Jack Sparrow, no less—and scolded him like a little boy.

She felt infinitely small. "Oh."

He scoffed. "Oh." He was mocking her.

_Bloody pirate. _She felt she had to defend William since he wasn't there to do so himself. "He still risked his life to save ours!"

He gave her another queer look and stomped off. "Hah!"

She ran after him. "But we have to do _something_ to rescue him!"

She stopped short when he turned and shooed her off. She didn't appreciate the motion. "Off you go then—let me know how that turns out."

How aggravating. She followed him still, hoping that he would finally tell her how he'd gotten off this bloody island before so they could do it again and save her childhood friend . . . ah, but Captain Jack Sparrow was full of tricks. _He spent three days on an island drinking rum!_ When she learned that one of the stories she'd been so fascinated with—she never understood her own fascination with pirates—was nothing but rumor, she felt something twist and break off inside. When he sauntered back onto the shoreline with his precious rum, she followed and stopped him. "So—is there any truth to the other stories?" If he proved them all false—every story she'd clung to in her child-like adoration—she swore she'd smack him. It would break her heart.

His gaze was unreadable. Even his characteristic sway seemed off. "Truth?" And then he bared his scars for her to see; a long, jagged red scar that still looked raw crawled up his forearm, two large . . . scabbed-over _holes_ on his chest in the vague memory of twin gunshots. She imagined there were many more scars—more stories that his body held—but he left it at that and tilted his head. She wanted to cry. "No truth at all." Even his sarcasm seemed more sardonic.

Why was it that he always made her feel like a stupid little girl?

She conceded for now. Decided to lay off the assault—but she was still worried for Will. Jack's assurance that they could probably be off the island in a month did not help. Who knew what could happen to Will in a month. _If I settle down to think, maybe I can come up with something. What would Jack do?_ That made her almost smile. Instead, she took the bottle of rum and sat beside him, resigned for the moment. "Drink up me hearties, yo-ho. . ." it was a pathetic imitation of the joviality the song was meant to hold. She took a swig.

Beside her, Jack was curious. "What was _that_, Elizabeth?"

The response was automatic—the exact opposite of what she'd told William a thousand times before. "Miss Swann." The rum was bitter . . . and yet, sweet on her tongue. Jack rolled his eyes and put up his hands in defense as if saying, _Well, excuse me, ya blasted prude. _Funny how she never had a problem with addressing him as _Jack_. "Nothing," she said, answering his question. "Just a song I liked as a child." She smiled. "When I actually used to think it'd be exciting to meet a pirate."

"Well, let's hear it."

Her brow furrowed. "No."

"C'mon—we've got the _time._ Let's have it." A pirate song he didn't know? This he _had_ to hear. Gibbs would probably love it.

"_No._ I'd have to have a lot more to drink," she added, muttering. There was no way she'd teach her favorite pirate song to a _pirate_.

For a moment, she thought that was the end of that. They said nothing . . . but then he smiled. She saw it and frowned even deeper. "How _much_ more?" he asked, taking another hearty gulp.

"_No,_ Jack."

He couldn't resist. "_Captain Jack Sparrow_."

Her frown was immediate. "That's a mouthful. No wonder no one ever calls you by your title."

He actually chuckled. "But it _does_ roll off the tongue nicely, dunnit, love?"

It was her turn to scoff. "_Pirates_."

An hour later—at least, she _felt _it was an hour—they were still staring out over the sea, but whereas Elizabeth was still nursing her bottle of wind-chilled rum, Jack had fetched more and was devouring the liquor quicker than he would oxygen. _No wonder he's always so . . . so . . . _well, there wasn't a word adequate enough to encompass the mannerisms of Jack Sparrow, but perhaps it had something to do with him constantly being drunk. She wondered how he acted when he _wasn't_ drunk.

After his fifth bottle, he began to hum. "Hmm . . . _hoist the colors high_ . . . mmmmhm. . ." A song? The line didn't sound familiar. She asked him about it, but he didn't say a word—didn't even continue his hum-singing. He seemed almost _afraid_ to continue. A shame; she loved pirate songs. Maybe, one day, if she told him _her_ pirate song, he'd tell her his. _I'll show you mine if you show me yours._ She laughed at herself, earning a confused, drunken look—both queer and completely lost—from her pirate companion.

But it would be a long time before she understood the significance of the song Jack had accidentally hummed. In the meantime, however, she had to think. _Thump_, went Jack, finally passing out beside her . . . she rolled her eyes and took another sip.

_Pirates._

**end//pt.01**

**NOTE//author.babble// **There's more than one part to this one. I was rewatching "Curse of the Black Pearl" yesterday and watched the bloopers and deleted scenes. I also noticed that a lot of the Jack x Elizabeth character interaction was cut out. That made me sad – so I added it back in. There's one more scene (a scene where Jack and Lizzie are on Norrington's ship after the island, and they're talking together). That'll probably be the last deleted scene I'll incorporate. Meanwhile, I'm having fun with this island bit. They should have ended the movie right there on that island.

By the way? Refer to ch.001 about the whole "beta" thing. Although, this chapter really isn't a spoiler, except for the bit about Jack's "secret" song. Sorry – couldn't help it :)


	3. ch003 true colors pt02

**CHAPTER SUMMARY: ** (island setting) Elizabeth, the philosopher, and the coconut.

**CATALYST**  
true colors//ch.003//pt.02  
_Heave-ho, thieves and beggars… never shall we die!_

"Mr. Sparrow . . . _what on Earth are you doing up there?_"

"Ah! So you've finally awakened, eh?" She could have sworn she heard a mumbled, "_I really liked the quiet, too_," but told herself she hadn't heard right. If she had, she'd knock him out of that tree.

She crossed her arms, fighting the last shreds of drowsiness from her eyes. She'd never slept on a beach before. It was . . . different. "No wonder he named the monkey after you."

He stopped whatever he was doing. "Y'know, if I weren't saving me pistol for a very important occasion, I daresay I would do both William and I a favor by _getting rid of you!_" Oh, but he was in a right cranky mood this morning. She glared even though she could only make out a vague silhouette amidst the leaves. "Now shut that aggravating mouth of yours and help me." Her vision was obscured by the branches; she had no idea what he was doing.

"Why should I?" Where _was_ his pistol? Maybe he'd be nicer if she shot off one of his toes.

"I've never minded rum in me belly—but I happen to be fond of coconuts as well. So if you want something in your stomach besides the rum, _darling_, you'd better catch these before they hit the ground." The tree rustled. "Else you'll be licking coconut milk from the _floor_." More rustling. "Later, we can catch some fish for an actual _meal_." The rustling stopped for a moment before resuming. A small _snap_ reached her ears. "I don't suppose you can fish, can you Lizzie?"

She yawned. "Miss Swann," she corrected tiredly. Oh my . . . was that _sunburn?_ "And no, I can't." She felt useless, suddenly. It was an awful feeling; would she ever prove that she could be every inch as resourceful and cunning as the men in her life? If only she were not born a woman . . . hah. She wouldn't even _be here_ if she weren't Elizabeth Swann. Hastily, she raised her chin a notch and squared her shoulders. "But how hard can it be?" _I can do it_. Anything Jack could do, she could do . . . moderately well. She'd damn well try, at any rate. So caught up in her musings, she failed to notice the coconut that plopped hard onto her cranium, causing her to Jack-sway for a moment. "Bloody 'ell, Jack! You _knew_ I wasn't paying attention! You bloody swine-bucket!" _Where had _that_ come from?_

A steady stream of laughter floated from the treetops. "My dear lady; I've never heard one of your station display such vulgarity. I fear for your reputation." More laughter. More rustling. How did he get to the other tree without first climbing down? _Monkey._

_No need for that. If the other debutantes and ladies of the court find out I was on a ship full of blood-thirsty pirates—_men_, never mind them being pirates—and then stuck on an island with no one but another man—let alone a pirate as well—I'll be as good as ruined. Father would never be able to show his face in public. _Her laugh was mirthless. "Thanks to you and Barbossa, I'll probably be considered no less than a whore." Not that she cared, but it was disheartening to know that she'd caused her father grief. She'd always loved her father dearly.

He didn't miss a beat. "Hardly a whore, love. Trust me—I've known whores. I couldn't sail the Pearl through that dam you call a hymen if I had all of me crew and canons doubled." She heard him scoff. "Bah! Whore indeed."

She felt herself turn fourteen different shades of red—and none had anything to do with the sun. He'd complimented her—was that really the word for it?—but to hear someone speak so freely about her maidenhead was . . . blasted pirate wouldn't know _propriety_ if it smacked him on his head. After a few minutes of silence filled with nothing but Jack's mutterings, she heard another snap and immediately readied herself. He wouldn't catch her unawares again. She suspected he distracted her with speech in order to _deliberately _hit her with the blasted coconuts.

When she caught the coconut, she let out a small, victorious _whoop_. "Hah! I caught it!" She held it up for inspection; she'd never seen a coconut before. Irregular, brown, and hairy. _We're going to _eat_ this? _ She sniffed it. She felt it. She tried to bite it experimentally and recoiled. _Ow!_ She should have guessed from when the first had hit her head, but she didn't think it'd be _that_ hard. Much to her chagrin, Jack had watched the interaction between coconut and woman with curiosity and laughed when she tried to tear off a mouthful. She scowled.

"That's_ not _how you eat a coconut, love." _Snap_. "Here." He tossed down another. And another. _And another._

_God_, was he bringing down the entire _tree_? "Wait a minute! There're too many!"

"You need to quicken your reflexes. Life comes at you pretty fast enough, eh?" And another bloody coconut! "You must keep up, else you'll fall behind, Lizzie!"

"Miss Swann!" she practically screamed, trying in vain to catch the nth coconut he threw down at her. Those few that survived the drop now littered the ground at her feet. She was growing tired of correcting him. The heat—and frustration—were getting to her and—admittedly—she let her mouth run away with her. In retrospect, she thought perhaps she should think before she spoke. "And I _don't_ need philosophy from a _bloody pirate!_"

He said nothing, but his complete halt in actions let her know he'd heard her. With ease, he jumped off of the tree he'd been perched on—behind her, it turned out, although how he got there was a mystery to her—and gave her this . . . _look_. Not for the first time since being stranded on this island did she feel small and ignorant. How did he always manage to do that? _I miss Will_, she thought absently. _He never made me feel so inferior._ She was comfortable with William; with Jack, she always felt like a bumbling child.

"Who then, 'Lizabeth?" He swayed a bit—very normal for him—so she suspected he'd had plenty of rum before she'd awakened. But his eyes seemed sober enough. "Some ol' madman who will never leave his own study?" He picked up a few coconuts. She'd only caught one. "One day, you're going to realize that it's not one's _station_—or even one's wealth. But you must open your eyes, love."

"Miss Swann." It was becoming second nature, now. "What is '_it_'?"

He stayed quiet, looking between the trees to the crystal-blue sea. With a pinch of sadness, he smiled. "It's freedom. _Freedom_. Do you know what I would give to have that again?"

She thought that maybe, she had an idea. "Everything."

He looked at her and laughed. "Peas in a pod, love. Peas in a pod."

----- POST-CHAPTER DRABBLE -----

After the debacle with the coconut, Jack tried teaching Elizabeth how to fish. Elizabeth proved to be a quick study—but unable to _stay bloody still_, so it was Jack who fetched their breakfast. Or lunch; she couldn't tell the time by looking at the sun as Jack could.

So instead of fishing, Jack had put her in charge of digging for clams beneath the sand. At first, she'd protested; she was not a dog to be pawing at the dirt, and he was not _her _Captain—and they weren't on a ship—so she didn't have to take orders from him. He had no trouble, however, reminding her that it was _he_ who had gotten them both food, and _he_ that had the bloody pistol. She countered that she knew he wouldn't shoot her, and he said that if she felt so inclined to fend for herself, she could catch her _own_ bloody fish.

She kept her mouth shut after that. She'd proven her hand at fishing—and it was pathetic, at best.

_Bloody pirate._

**end//pt.02**

**NOTE//author.babble// ** Okay, don't argue with me that the lyric is "Never say we die!" at the end of _"Hoist the Colours"_. I watched AWE _three times_ and downloaded the soundtrack. Those people say "Never _shall_ we die", even though the lyrics say "Never _say_ we die". I like "Never shall we die" better anyway.

Also? I wrote this at work. Haha, I'm sneakier than my boss thinks.

Just for record's sake, I hate that "Peas in a pod, love" line. People overuse it. But I think it's just as funny as the word "bloody", so I used it. HUZZAH!

And say hello to the darling **TheSummoningDark**, my beloved beta-reader. My typo-infested existence will be rectified:D


	4. ch004 twisted tango

**CHAPTER SUMMARY: ** (DMC spoilers) Elizabeth watches Jack. Norrington watches Elizabeth watching Jack. Jack watches lovingly over his Pearl, and Gibbs watches them all whilst wondering why young people were so _stupid_ these days. (This kind of jumps back and forth between scenes, but all of them take place during Elizabeth and Norrington's stay aboard the Black Pearl during Dead Man's Chest.)

**CATALYST**  
twisted tango//ch.004  
_Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!_

-----------------------  
Elizabeth Swann  
-----------------------

Curiosity. Curiosity? _Curiosity my bloody arse! _It wasn't until after the insufferable pirate had relieved her of his presence that she realized what a smooth-talker Jack was. She'd known it before, but he'd never been so _forward_—no, no, scratch that. She could think of quite a few instances on that island in which she was sure her innocence had been in danger. Stupid Jack—she couldn't believe she was _giggling_. Leaning against a nearby mast, she crossed her arms and sulked—no! She wasn't _sulking_. Why would she be sulking? Unbidden, an image came to mind.

"_You're going to want to taste it." They'd been close. Too close for talking, yet too far to . . . do what? She may be a virgin—blasted Will—but she wasn't as naïve as she used to be. She knew that look—that cloudy, glazed over look a man gets when he wants a woman. And Captain Jack Sparrow, she realized belatedly—and forgot all too often, but not as often as she should have—was _all_ man. Except for that bloody fascination with little trinkets and anything shiny. That was more child-like—more like a parrot, honestly—than anything she'd ever seen before. Even Mr. Cotton's parrot wasn't so obsessed with all that was silver and gold._

"_I _do _want to taste it," he breathed, his eyes dazed. He sounded as if he hadn't realized this himself. As if it surprised and confused him. Well, he wasn't the only one surprised and confused—she didn't think he'd actually _agree_. She just wanted him to realize that she was a woman—an intelligent, independent woman—who could be very much his equal, and to _stop_ talking to her as if she were a child._

_Bloody pirate was always unpredictable. _

_When he inched closer, looking for all of the world confused and infinitely unsure, she found herself reciprocating. She couldn't fathom why, though. She didn't want this; didn't want _him_. She didn't want the stench of rum and spice and salty sea to gently caress the contours of her sun-tanned face. Didn't want the tendony, rough hand that had cautiously gripped her elbow, nor that odd, _shiny_ look in his eye that she'd never seen before on the good captain. And when the ghost of his beard and mustache tickled the tender skin of her lips, her chin, her nose, she swore she despised the queer tingle in her stomach. That the wobbly knees fighting to keep her standing was due to her landlubber legs failing to get used to the gentle sway of fro and to. Her uncertain hand reaching for his arm was because she was unsteady was all. She closed her eyes because she was blinking and that's what eyes did. _

_But when there was nothing but a frightened Sparrow in the end, she was glad. She was _relieved._ That scared, confused glance would follow—nigh haunt—her for a long, long while. But only because she wondered _why_ he was confused. It had nothing to do with the sharp sting of rejection. If there had never been an offer placed on the table of opportunity in reverence of her person for the purpose of approval or rejection, then it wasn't logical that there need be anything that had been rejected, for in order to be rejected one must first put one's self in the position of possible rejection to feel as such. And if there needn't be—_

_Wait. What the hell just happened? She sounded like . . . !_

That? She was most certainly _not_ sulking over that! Oh, but her face burned several different shades of red. Again. She was embarrassed and ashamed of her own actions. William hadn't been there for that debacle; her heart hadn't remembered him for him to have been there.

And when she avoided that blasted pirate for nearly two days and nights, she told herself it was because he annoyed her, and all she wanted was to get to William. _Her_ William Turner. Her betrothed. Her kind, loving, caring, sweet, noble, gentle William Turner. She was robbed of her wedding—and wedding _night_—and she swore that once this mess was settled, she'd throw down that blasted captain on whatever sheets be nearby and show him just what she thought of his bloody rum-infested breath and bloody _stupid_ coconuts and—!

. . . What? What was—oh . . . Oh dear _God_. How did that damned pirate manage to enrage her even when he wasn't _near_?

She smacked the one side of her head, as if to dislodge a tiny parasite that resembled a drunken scallywag what had been sucking on the foundations of her brain. Bloody mosquito. Bloody _wasp. _Poisonous little insect-creature that corrupted her pure and honey-sweet thoughts and plans for her sweet William.

She reasoned it had something to do with the fact that she'd taken over Jack's cabin until they found William. Seeing as the _Black Pearl_ wasn't a vessel of luxury, its crew slept below deck, taking up one or two large rooms with hammocks and sparse belongings. They were men, and they were pirates—they needed nothing their lady the_ Pearl_ couldn't offer. The captain, of course, had a nice cabin he'd made for himself—although he barely used it, she realized—but much of it had been overrun with parchments, unclean quills, and bottles of ink; a large wooden desk for his compass, his atlas, his maps, and globes. A shelf of books so old, the dust seemed more tangible than the actual pages.

Jack had set up a hammock on the other side of his own cabin after Elizabeth demanded she deserved the bed. Grumbling, Jack sauntered off for some rum—or whatever he'd muttered—and she'd set about cleaning whatever she could as best as someone out at sea was capable of.

But Jack had never come back to his cabin to sleep on his temporary hammock. The smell of rum and spices and salty sea had been thoroughly quenched from her temporary surroundings—quite a feat for someone who had never cleaned a single thing in her life (not even herself) since the maids had always spoiled her—but this cabin was still _his_. That was the only reason she couldn't sleep. The _only_ reason she couldn't sleep; because she was using a room not her own.

Once she was back home, she'd marry Will and never again look to the sea for billowing black sails.

-----------------------  
James Norrington  
-----------------------

It hit him like an anchor when she started walking like him; it made him want to hurl when she'd started _talking_ like him. She'd slipped up then—apologized and blamed it on hanging around the crewmen for too long . . . but _his_ manner of speech befuddled his own crew, so James Norrington didn't believe that. No one could speak like that confounding pirate, though Elizabeth was subconsciously trying. That's when he began to alternatively avoid and find excuses to be around her.

As a child—and he was sure Joshamee Gibbs would attest to this—Elizabeth had had the whimsical—and sometimes _annoying_—habit of mimicking the men in her life she looked up to. He would catch her mimicking her father's speech more often than not. He pinned it to the loss of her mother and her own, weak constitution—overcompensating for the weakness in her frail, feminine body. He found it amusing when she'd started to impersonate Gibbs by accident, adding in the unnecessary "Aye" and random buccaneer phrase to her statements; her father had forbidden her from conversing with any and all crewmen after that.

At one point, he'd noticed a few of his own traits within her mannerisms. It was one of the highest compliments she could have ever given him. He was good enough to be idolized to some degree—even if by just an odd little girl—and it made him proud of himself.

In her later years, she'd begun acting like that blacksmith's apprentice—but oddly enough, she'd become his _opposite_ in stead of mimicking the Turner boy. That bothered him a bit; Elizabeth was a chameleon in every sense of the word.

But he'd come to terms—sort of—with losing the only woman he'd ever watched grow up to the boy he'd pulled from the chaotic seas. He'd watched them _both_ grow up, so he supposed it was just his bad hand he'd played in the disillusioning game of Fate. William Turner and Elizabeth Swann. _Elizabeth Turner_. He'd been prepared to even buy them a wedding gift.

He'd loved Elizabeth enough to let her go.

But that blasted—dear Lord, he'd been in Tortuga far too long—Turner couldn't even steal a woman the right way. That _look_—that damnable little smile and beautiful twinkle in her eyes—had been what he'd longed for everyday since Elizabeth had come of age, and it irked him to no end that _Jack Sparrow_ had enticed it out of her effortlessly. Hadn't even _tried_. He would have showered her with dresses trimmed with pure gold and a safe, secure future—but all it took was a dirty, perpetually drunk pirate and a bit of teasing.

He'd never thought she'd be such an easy bargain.

----------------------------  
Captain Jack Sparrow  
----------------------------

He admonished himself for not thinking of it before. He'd gotten the job halfway done by sending the boy Turner to Davy Jones in his stead, but it would have been a stroke of pure brilliance if he'd thought of getting the lady Swann out of her high-polished home and onto his ship in search of the chest. As it were, luck seemed to run a lot more potently through his veins than brilliance, but his intelligence was high enough to spot an ample opportunity when he saw one.

It would have saved him a lot of agonizing, however, if he'd been brilliant. Bloody compass. _Bloody Tia Dalma_.

"Gibbs!" he called out on an impulse, not certain exactly _why_ he was calling to his first mate.

"Aye, Cap'n?" Reliable Gibbs, always there when you needed him. For the most part.

Contemplating the feel of wood beneath his fingertips—how he loved his _Pearl_—he took a moment before answering. "How fares our lady?" He hadn't thought _that_ would have erupted from his mouth, although he _was_ curious.

Gibbs misunderstood. "Cotton—er, his _parrot_, rather—thinks we have an infestation of rats upon us, sir. I'm athinkin' he may be right. One o' the canons don't seem to be in top shape, either, and I think someone may be stealin' the cannonballs—"

With a small smile, Jack interrupted his old friend. "No—I meant Miss Swann, Gibbs." A flash of gold. "And Norrington. I really don't care if he's doing well—just tell me if he's behaving or not." Captain Jack Sparrow had no qualms about repaying the former Commodore for the feel of a noose around his neck, nor the cold stink of sitting in a cell. For attempting to humiliate Jack, even when he'd gone out of his way to save the git's fair lady. No, if chance came and the only means of barter would be the ninety-nine souls—provided Lizzie really wasn't honest on what she wanted—then Jack wanted to keep Norrington on his ship as long as he could; their debt, it seemed, would never be squared to Jack. The insult to his character was too great.

Gibbs nodded, somehow always understanding the captain—and when he didn't, he was pretty sure he'd figure it out. "The old Commodore is pulling his weight enough. Pintel and Ragetti seem to be treatin' him like proper scum. He sent quite a few of the _Pearl's_ old crew to the gallows shortly after _Isla de Muerta_, if you remember correctly."

Jack nodded. "It seems keeping those two onboard wasn't such a mistake after all."

"Aye," agreed Gibbs. "Miss Elizabeth," he started, suddenly a bit hesitant in his speech, "seems as well as a lass in her station can be at this point." For the first time in a _long_ while, Jack could have sworn a small blush had arisen in his first mate's cheek. Interesting. "I daresay she's a mite . . . _frustrated_, if ye catch me meanin'."

No, actually, he hadn't. But after a moment of thinking—and a moment of Gibbs coughing—he thought that _maybe_ he might have an idea. Perhaps he should go talk to dear ol' Lizzie . . . but first! "Fetch me a bottle of rum, if you will Mr. Gibbs, and call Anamaria up to take helm. I have a need to talk to our bonnie lass." He didn't see the worried expression on Joshamee Gibbs' face, but it was doubtful Jack would have heeded it regardless. He was the captain of the _Black Pearl_; what could possibly go wrong?

---------------------  
Joshamee Gibbs  
---------------------

Sometimes, he reflected, it was a burden having lived to see and know so much. He'd known young Miss Swann since she was barely taller than his knees; had known Jack for longer than he could remember—so long, only he had the right to call him "Jack", although he kept to titles for proper piracy's sake. He'd seen young Mr. Turner in that shipwreck, and subsequent first meeting with little Elizabeth—and although he hadn't kept up with the boy, he still _knew_ the boy. He'd known James Norrington as both Captain and enemy: in short, Joshamee Gibbs _knew too much_.

Now, he had nothing against Miss Elizabeth—well, maybe a bit—but ever since she and James Norrington gotten on board, the captain had seemed a mite . . . off. He wasn't normal. He watched as they hopped around each other in an odd, fleeting dance of banter and flirtation. Oft-times, he'd find Elizabeth looking at the Captain when she thought no one was watching; but Gibbs saw everything. Or, at least, he'd like to think he did. Norrington, too, had taken up watching another—namely, Miss Swann—and that would lead to such a loathing, hateful glance to the captain, whom Elizabeth watched with her large, fluttering eyes and a secret smile.

Jack, of course, watched his beloved _Pearl_ with unwavering love and adoration, a bottle of rum always secured in his arm.

"Gibbs!" came the call, and Gibbs hurried to his captain's side.

"Aye, Cap'n?" Gibbs waited for an order, and instead found that Jack had none ready for him. Gibbs didn't like the feeling he was getting from the younger pirate.

When he _did _speak, it didn't sound the Jack he knew. It didn't even sound like Jack. The infamous Captain Sparrow was fidgeting, playing with a splinter in the wood. "How fares our lady?"

Ah. That was more like it. For a moment, Gibbs thought Jack would ask after Elizabeth, confirming his fears. Jack asking after his _Pearl _was always a good thing. "Cotton—er, his _parrot_, rather—thinks we have an infestation of rats upon us, sir. I'm athinkin' he may be right." He scourged his brain for what else may be of some concern. "One o' the canons don't seem to be in top shape, either, and I think someone may be stealin' the cannonballs—"

"No—I meant Miss Swann, Gibbs." He smiled. "And Norrington. I really don't care if he's doing well—just tell me if he's behaving or not."

He knew it. He _bloody _well knew it! He approached the easiest subject first. "The old Commodore is pulling his weight enough. Pintel and Ragetti seem to be treatin' him like proper scum." He never cared overly much for the ex-Commodore, but neither did he care much for the ragtag duo that had been apart of the mutiny against Jack. Still. . . "He sent quite a few of the _Pearl's_ old crew to the gallows shortly after _Isla de Muerta_, if you remember correctly." He could understand feeling resentful towards the man for sending old mates to the hangman's noose. Any pirate worthy of his ship and crew would. But the show of loyalty from the two formerly-undead pirates seemed almost _too_ ironic.

Jack seemed to agree. "It seems keeping those two onboard wasn't such a mistake after all."

"Aye," agreed Gibbs. "Miss Elizabeth," he started, loathed to breach this subject. It didn't bode well to the sea-weathered first mate, especially since young Elizabeth had all but confessed her _issues_ to him after she'd gotten aboard just a few days prior. "Seems as well as a lass in her station can be at this point." Miss Swann had always been a strong young lady—quite different than your run-of-the-mill women of propriety—but it was still more than a bit awkward to hear such things from someone who was _still a lady_. "I daresay she's a mite . . . _frustrated_, if ye catch me meanin'." He didn't elaborate, blaming the sudden heat in his cheeks to the burning sun overhead. He was both exasperated and relieved when the captain obviously _hadn't_ caught his meaning.

As far as _he_ be concerned, Jack Sparrow was a lot better off without women either way.


End file.
